Mirror Images
by ferain1832
Summary: When Grantaire takes a radical step towards winning Enjolras's approval, unexpected consequences ensue. Selling his soul to the Devil may not have been the best idea.
1. Chapter 1

Mirror Images, a horror story

"Come on, Grantaire," Joly nudged him. "Cheer up. Let's go to Le Peletier, _Robert le diable_ is premiering."

"They say it's magnificent and Meyerbeer's outdone himself," Bossuet struck in. "And then we'll go to the ball at Sceaux, like last year. Courfeyrac has been talking about it for weeks."

Grantaire muttered something in return, never intending it to be comprehensible.

Joly sighed and moved his chair closer. "What is it?" he said gently.

"Nothing."

"Why today?"

"Don't know."

"There must be a reason," Bossuet said, pulling up a chair. "That's why Le Peletier is such a good idea. You'll cheer up, have a change of air, maybe meet some lovely female - "

Grantaire scoffed loudly at that last.

Joly and Bossuet exchanged glances.

"There's Enjolras right there," Joly said at last. "Shall I invite him to come over to us?"

"Enjolras," Grantaire said bitterly. "Enjolras."

"Well, shall I?"

"Don't," Grantaire murmured. "He is busy. He has important work to do."

"I'm sure he could spare a moment," Bossuet said.

"Don't."

"Why not?"

"What's the point? He won't talk to me anyway. He never does. Why force Beauty to look upon the Beast? He disdains me. He hates the sight of me. I'd rather delude myself from a distance."

And as if to put a stop to this conversation, Grantaire took a long swig from his bottle.

"I think you shouldn't be drinking just now," Joly said, reaching cautiously for the bottle.

"Why ever not?" Grantaire shrugged his shoulders. "Now is the perfect time to be drinking. I wish I was drowning in a sea of absinthe. It would spare me the trouble of moving my arms."

"You'd still need to swim."

Instead of an answer, Grantaire stretched himself out on the table, still in an angle from which he could see Enjolras. For once, he wasn't buried in papers but talking to Feuilly about something that Grantaire could not hear but could easily imagine to be guns or barricade plans or something equally ludicrous.

Of course, if Enjolras had spoken to him, Grantaire would talk about anything, be it barricades or fighting techniques or Robespierre. Perhaps that was the issue, he thought absently, pulling out his pipe. There was that promising tobacco he got from Prouvaire. Perhaps if he went to the library and read ten books on guns and rifles Enjolras would respect him more?

What a stupid idea, he thought, lighting the pipe. What would Enjolras care for regurgitated information? He wasn't a child that could be appeased by shoving a piece of Republican cake in his mouth. Enjolras would forever disdain him because Grantaire had no opinions of his own. He was like an unfortunate dog, a terrible hunter that could only bring back the stick.

Suddenly, everything went dark. There was a deafening roar as the floor of the Musain burst into flames. Grantaire leapt up, overturning the table, frantically looking for Enjolras who was nowhere to be seen.

A tall, horned figure appeared in the very thick of the flames, casually flicking its tail and sending the table where Enjolras and Feuilly had been sitting right into the wall.

"You have summoned me, mortal," the figure said in a deep, threatening voice. "I am the Devil. What are your commands?"

"What have you done with Enjolras, you bastard?" Grantaire shouted. "And the rest? Where are they all?"

"I haven't done anything with your Enjolras," the Devil said, his voice suddenly becoming quite normal. "They're all in another dimension. Calm down. How am I supposed to make a dramatic entrance with so many witnesses?"

"Give him back," Grantaire demanded. "If you do so much as singe a hair on his head, I promise you I'll - "

The Devil did something that looked terribly like he was rolling his eyes. "I've told you, he's perfectly fine," he said, rearranging his tail so he could perch on it. "I'm so tired of devoted lovers. Can't you send him to the Devil instead? Literally?"

"I'd never!"

"That may be for the best," the Devil sighed. "Can you imagine that rascal in Hell? He'd make all my best devils Republican, would hold secret meetings with them in Cocytus and build barricades in each one of the nine circles."

"Well, what do you want from me?" Grantaire cut him off.

"Oh, nothing much," the Devil said with a friendly smile. "Only your soul, in exchange for your heart's desire."

"Give back Enjolras and the others," Grantaire ordered.

The Devil sighed again. "Don't be dumb," he said. "I'll give them back anyway, they aren't the ones who summoned me. It's too nice of me to say it. I should have just let you waste your wish."

Now Grantaire began to hesitate. "My heart's desire? You mean it?"

"Of course I mean it," the Devil said, tapping his tail impatiently. "You really are hopeless. Let me give you a hint. Some people ask for a pile of gold, others for power, sometimes to read minds. Although in your case, I'd say what you need most is a kiss from your beloved."

Grantaire looked down on the flaming floor, biting his lip.

"And you could arrange that?" he said at last.

"Of course I could," the Devil smirked. "Just imagine it. You sit here in your corner and suddenly _he_ comes over to you and leans down with his shirt all unbuttoned and those golden locks tumbling down onto his neck, his rosy lips parted slightly, his beautiful eyes all clouded with desire, then he looks right at you, his face only a breath away and whispers to you: kiss me, Mortal. Or whatever your name is."

Grantaire tried to imagine it, forgetting to breathe, yet the ravishing image had a false tint about it. The real Enjolras of his dreams, shirt firmly buttoned up, stood at a distance bathed in light, offering nothing more and nothing less than an extended arm and a quiet smile.

"No," Grantaire said. "I don't want that. It'd be forced. He wouldn't do that if he was himself."

The Devil groaned. "You Mortals are such tender little bundles of noble emotions. Well, if you don't want to force him, what do you want?"

"I want you to make me worthy of him," Grantaire announced. "I want you to help me really believe in the stuff he believes in and make me capable of impressing him. Let me be deserving of his respect."

"As you wish," the Devil shrugged his shoulders. "Though really, that's not such a tall order. You only have to realise it."

He flicked his tail and produced a parchment with Grantaire's name already signed on it.

"Your soul, you remember?"

"Sure," Grantaire said. What was a soul in comparison with the heaven that would ensue?

The Devil smirked, let out another deafening roar, then everything was engulfed in flames and faded to black.


	2. Chapter 2

He opened his eyes and found himself back in the empty Musain. There was no one in sight and the café was unusually light.

Now that he noticed it, Grantaire himself felt unusually light. It was as if someone had stretched him thin and filled him with hot air. He didn't feel precisely _happy_, more like giddy and carefree.

The door banged and Joly walked in. He threw him a glance and went to sit on a table far away.

"Hey, Joly," Grantaire called out, surprised. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Joly said, his voice strangely distant. "Everything is very good, thank you for asking."

"Are you ill?" Grantaire asked, coming up to him. "Don't worry, I never catch anything."

"My health is perfectly normal," Joly said coldly. "Have a good day, Monsieur Grantaire." Then he pulled out a newspaper and turned away.

Already shocked to the core, Grantaire was still surprised to see that he was reading the legitimist satire column in _La Mode_.

He didn't have long to ponder over his friend's strange behavior because the door banged once more, revealing Bossuet.

"Bossuet, old fellow," Grantaire cried, "I'm so glad to see you!"

"That's Monsieur Lesgles to you," Bossuet said, a glum expression on his face. He threw himself onto another table and buried his face in his hands.

"Wait, what happened?" Grantaire asked, now thoroughly concerned. "Did you argue with Joly? That would explain - "

"I didn't argue with anyone," Bossuet groaned, "especially not with that Joly whom I hardly know and don't like very much. I've been robbed, Grantaire, robbed! I haven't a franc to my name!"

"Well," Grantaire mumbled, "that's unfortunate but it isn't the first time, is it? I've never seen you so upset about it. We'll all lend you money like before, you know that."

"I hate my life," Bossuet exclaimed. "Why do all these misfortunes happen to me? What did I do to deserve them?"

Grantaire looked around in desperation and was glad to see Courfeyrac waltz in.

"Courfeyrac," he called out, "come here for a moment."

"Oh, don't bother me," Courfeyrac said, waving him away. "I am trying to calculate how much of my allowance I can spend on hats. You cannot believe how much my mistress drains my income, that stupid rat."

"...Courfeyrac!"

"What now?" Courfeyrac moaned. "You know I am cheating on her. I am cheating on five of them simultaneously, what of that? _C'est la vie_." And he gave him a decidedly sleazy wink. "Well," he gave in, turning towards Grantaire again, "what was it you were saying?"

"Bossuet," Grantaire said, a little out of breath from shock.

"Oh, what do I care about him?" Courfeyrac laughed, shrugging his shoulders warily, perhaps fearing that the elaborate outfit he was wearing would crumple. "They could all go to hell as far as I'm concerned. I am happy, so should everyone else be, whoever isn't can go fuck himself."

"Your language, Courfeyrac," Combeferre said, suddenly appearing behind him.

Grantaire sighed in relief. Perhaps now normality would be restored.

Courfeyrac pouted and turned away to file his nails.

"You ought to quit being such a headless dandy," Combeferre continued, sitting down, one leg over another, "and concentrate on the news. That Guizot fellow is proposing the most atrocious law I have ever heard. Any 18-year-old with a license may teach, can you imagine? Without the slightest regard for what dangerous drivel those republican dolts may indoctrinate the young generation with, no - "

"Oh, do shut up," a new voice cooed.

Grantaire turned and saw Prouvaire and Bahorel come in.

"I am sick and tired of politics," Prouvaire exclaimed, clutching melodramatically at his chest. He was wearing an ordinary suit-and-cravat ensemble, no mediaeval doublets, no hats with green feathers, no extraordinary colours.

"There are radicals all around," Bahorel murmured, looking around cautiously. "Trying to pick fights with me to show how hardy they are."

"And you run away from them and complain to the gendarmes," Prouvaire laughed. "And very rightly, too. I am terrified of these fanatics."

Grantaire pushed past them outside. He needed some fresh air to clear his head. Was this all some elaborate practical joke?

"What are you staring at?" someone challenged him.

Grantaire shook himself and saw Feuilly.

"Yes, I am poor," Feuilly said, his tone of voice thoroughly despondent. "Yes, I can do absolutely nothing about it. That doesn't give you the right to stare at me. I know I shouldn't even have learnt to read and write. Someone proposed I read books about Poland. What do I care about bloody Poland?"

"But it's not true you can do nothing about it," Grantaire said, suddenly feeling in a mood for an inspiring speech. "If everyone said that, nothing would ever change. You can stand up and be vocal about your problems. You can fight for your rights and - "

"Oh, quit moralising," Feuilly snapped, then turned sharply round and stalked back down the street.

Grantaire wasn't wounded for long. If he could talk like that to Feuilly, he could surely do it again with Enjolras. It wasn't that he suddenly began to believe in the revolution, not quite. He was simply more willing to accept these principles, less acerbic towards them, no longer reluctant to call them his own.

Then his heart fluttered in his chest like one of those dreadful moths that Combeferre sometimes brought to the Musain. A slender figure appeared in the distance, crossing the Place Saint-Michel, its golden hair catching the sunlight.


	3. Chapter 3

"Grantaire," Enjolras said, pausing by him. His voice sounded a little unusual, a little less focused than it always was. "I was looking for you."

"For me?"

Enjolras nodded.

Grantaire took a deep breath, trying to compose his trembling hands. It has begun already, Enjolras already trusted him, already sought him out from the crowd. Now it was time to explain the changes he felt inside him, the new principles that -

He was about to speak when he looked closer into Enjolras's face, close enough for such an inspection, perhaps for the first time since they met.

There was an odd sense of disorientation in Enjolras's eyes, as if they were straining to see through a fog.

"Have you seen them yet?"

"The others? Just now. What is wrong with them?"

"I don't know," Enjolras said quietly. "They are completely changed and nothing I say is of any effect. You are the only one who stayed the same."

"Really?" Grantaire exclaimed, disappointed. To be sure, he hadn't said anything Republican to him yet. "I thought I - "

"You look at me just the same," Enjolras suddenly said with unusual earnestness. "Tenderly, I suppose. But I think we are all going insane. That is the only way to explain this. I never thought it would happen to me but otherwise why would I be feeling this way?"

"Which way?" Grantaire inquired gently, ready for anything now that the world really seemed to be upside down. He had never seen this forlorn expression creep onto that face, making it no longer stoic and firm.

"It is as if someone is tearing me apart," Enjolras said, in his eyes a frightening sadness. "I no longer have unity of purpose. It no longer seems as if what I do holds any meaning. I could not save my friends from a terrible fate. All my ideals no longer seem sincere. I don't seem to exist anymore, not the way I was before. It's as if someone had taken me and scooped out everything that I valued in myself."

Suddenly, with those last words, it all made sense.

It was all the work of the Devil, Grantaire realised with mortification. Somehow, he managed to trick him and give him only half the deal. Technically, he has fulfilled it - Grantaire did indeed feel more empowered and here was Enjolras talking to him more freely than he had even dared to dream but…

He did not want Enjolras at such a cost.

He tried opening his mouth to say it but the words wouldn't come. Yes, someone was whispering in his ear, say it and you will lose him forever, you will go back to being a useless drunkard, you will lose all that is attractive about you now and he will never look at you again.

And yet, all that dawn could not outweigh the sadness in Enjolras's eyes.

"Don't worry," Grantaire whispered at last. "I will set things to right. You can trust me."

Unable to resist, he took Enjolras's smaller hand in his, kissed it once, twice, then with an effort that felt as if he was tearing himself in half, he turned and went back into the Musain.


	4. Chapter 4

The room was somehow empty again. Grantaire walked slowly over to his table in the corner and sat down, still fighting off the burning desire to run back.

"Well, you didn't last long, did you?" someone said.

Grantaire looked up and saw the Devil.

"You bastard," he whispered. "You had to trick me, didn't you?"

The Devil gasped. "I did not trick you in the slightest," he said, sending the other chair by Grantaire's table flying into the wall and perching down on his tail instead.

"Of course you did," Grantaire shouted suddenly. "You twisted him and everyone else!"

"Well," the Devil sighed apologetically, "cut me some slack. I was faced with the tall order of making you worthy of that righteous angel. You instructed me that the way to make said angel approve of you was to make you believe in the same things and make him be able to respect you."

"And did you do that?" Grantaire hissed.

"Of course," the Devil shrugged his shoulders. "You could have waxed lyrical to him about all the Robespierres of the world if you didn't start being so noble."

"You transformed them. You made them into corrupted shadows of themselves. You reduced him - "

"Oh, cut it out," the Devil said, rolling his eyes. "Of course I did. The only viable way of making you all that you asked without doing too much damage to the universe was to turn everything upside down. Thus your friends start professing the precise opposite of their ideas."

"But you did not succeed with Enjolras," Grantaire exclaimed triumphantly. "He resisted you. He did not abandon his beliefs, not quite."

"That is a tough nut to crack," the Devil admitted. "But don't worry, I will get to him eventually."

"Don't you dare!"

"I don't understand you," the Devil sighed, making some flames dance on the tabletop. "I thought you wanted him."

"Precisely," Grantaire murmured. "I want him. Him, not a distorted copy. Him, in all his glory, with all his convictions, with all his ideals and splendour and light. If the only way I can get him is by taking that away, I will not touch him. If he is a statue, it is of marble, not clay. I would rather watch him from afar than have him up close but no longer himself."

The Devil was shaking his head in disbelief.

"I love him, don't you understand? When you love someone, you love him as he is. You do not want to bring him down or to hurt him by taking away all he values."

"Well, as you wish," the Devil said. "I only wanted to help. So be it. I'm afraid the payment is still due."

"Fine," Grantaire shrugged his shoulders, still breathless. He had agreed, after all. Perhaps it was better to die. He could never have commited suicide; he did not have enough drive to carry out the act. Moreover, however dark the shadows seemed, he could never quit them. It would mean quitting Enjolras's light as well. Now, though, when it was no longer in his hands -

"I'll be taking him, then," the Devil said with a sweet smile.

"Wait, what?"

The Devil clicked his fingers and suddenly Enjolras was standing beside him, looking frail in comparison with the towering black figure. The look on his face, however, was one that Grantaire knew and loved so well. It was the familiar fierce defiance coupled with stoic disdain.

"We agreed to let me take your soul," the Devil said. "Here it is then."

"That isn't fair!" Grantaire exclaimed. "You cannot - "

"Of course I can," the Devil smirked. "He is your soul after all. What will you do without him, what will you be? Nothing. You will disintegrate, degenerate even further until you die in some sewer like a rat. He is your only chance of salvation. Last time I knew, this is precisely what a soul is."

"You cannot," Grantaire shouted, "he is not at fault for that! He has a life of his own! He knows nothing of this!"

The Devil only smiled and reached out for Enjolras.

"Please!" he screamed, collapsing to his knees in desperation as the tail curled around Enjolras's waist. "I beg you, take me instead! Torture me for eternity! Tear me into a million pieces, feed me to your devils, just please, spare him, please!"

All went suddenly dark. The room shook, there were roars and crackling of flames, then -

"Grantaire! My God, Grantaire!"

Grantaire prised his eyes open and saw Joly towering above him, his face twisted with concern.

"Thank heavens," Joly said, sighing with relief. "We thought…"

"Seriously, old man," Bossuet intervened, pushing Joly out of Grantaire's view, "that is a bit much. You mustn't frighten us like that."

Grantaire tried to sit up and found Courfeyrac's arm wrapped around his shoulder.

"He is fine before you ask," he whispered into Grantaire's ear. "Enjolras is. You were screaming for him."

"Let me through," Combeferre said, kneeling beside them. He checked his pulse and nodded. "Think twice before you decide to smoke hallucinogenic substances again, especially in public."

"Yes, Prouvaire," Bahorel smirked, hauling Grantaire up, "think twice before giving innocent people large quantities of God knows what."

"I didn't know he'd smoke it in here!" Prouvaire exclaimed, coughing. "I only - "

"Nearly poisoned us all," Courfeyrac laughed, leading Grantaire to a chair. "Did you even tell him what it was?"

"He didn't," Grantaire forced out, his throat very hoarse.

"I must have forgotten!" Prouvaire lamented.

Joly was on hand with a cup of water. "Well, you nearly killed poor Capital R," he said, "and made us all have such hallucinations that I don't even want to think about it."

Grantaire started in his chair. "Hallucinations?" Then was none of it was true?

"I don't remember much," Joly shrugged his shoulders, "but I think I was a royalist!"

Courfeyrac shuddered. "And I insulted my mistress and was such a horrific brat that I would dearly like to run myself through with a nice sharp sabre."

Combeferre sighed. "Prouvaire, you must destroy this substance, whatever it is."

Suddenly Grantaire felt a hand land softly on his shoulder and all the world melted away. He turned around and saw Enjolras.

"You set it right," he said quietly. "I knew I could trust you."

"I don't believe in those things any longer," Grantaire confessed, somehow knowing that Enjolras will understand. "It seems that I cannot, without turning everything upside down."

"It is not that which matters," Enjolras said. His hand was still on Grantaire's shoulder. "I realise it now. What matters is that you believe in something, that there is something in which you will never fail."

"Enjolras, I - "

A smile and Grantaire was silenced. Instead of saying what already seemed clear, he watched, as if from outside his body, Enjolras lean towards him and clasp his hand.


End file.
